


when in dreams i go to you

by suisei (nanakomatsus)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27434416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanakomatsus/pseuds/suisei
Summary: a strange man, a strange shop and an unsuspecting college studentor, in which human desire overrides all common sense. ushijima wakatoshi would know.written for #HaikyuuAngstWeek2020Day 7 || Goodbyes
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51
Collections: Haikyuu Angst Week 2020





	when in dreams i go to you

**Author's Note:**

> i finally have a reason to write this xxxholic au that's been sitting in my drafts for a long, long time  
> disclaimer: the shopkeeper/ shop owner/ witch are interchangeable titles in the context of this story (as with the original source)  
> soundtrack: dream in a dream - ten

He’d gotten lost some time ago.

Maybe it was that turning at the intersection, the one that he’s always confused by. Or maybe it was at that alleyway bakery that always seems to catch his eye when he passes by. Whatever it is, he’s lost.

Now, he finds himself wandering around an unfamiliar, unnamed neighbourhood. Having moved to Tokyo just a few months before, it had taken him some time to adjust to the constant noise pervading his everyday life. Everyone he knows had told him that he’d get used to it soon enough. And he did, yes.

But walking through this area, this strangely deserted enclave of abandoned office buildings and older, run-down apartments, he’s surrounded by the quiet he’d almost forgotten about; the quiet of his home in the countryside, one where it’s nothing but the chirping of the cicadas and birds and windchimes. 

One that doesn’t constantly remind him that the world is moving around him and he’s got to keep up or risk falling behind.

Besides that, the only true physical indicator of the life he’d left behind is the wide, empty lot sitting between two massive, glassy skyscrapers.

_(Had that been there before?)_

He stares at the space overgrown with cattails, frowning. _Some strange dream_ he thinks, but no, he knows this is real because there’s still the oppressive, high-rise buildings towering over him, their pressure intangible yet all the more forceful upon his being.

He checks his phone. No signal. Of course. He tries restarting it. No such luck. It is then that he falters. 

Tokyo is many things; it’s invasive, it’s a city with many moving parts, mostly with their own wills, it’s full of life, filled with soulless neon lights and above all, it’s a city that thrives off of connection in the most distant of ways.

In short, there’s never _not_ a signal. He pockets the device.

He lifts his head and suddenly, there’s a quaint traditional wooden chalet standing at the center of the once-empty space. Flowers hang along the roof in abundance, creeper plants covering most of the structure. The building is obviously old but well-kept.

He’s drawn in, body seemingly moving of its own accord, passing through the front gate, wisteria tendrils tickling his skin from above, where they grow in a luscious arch. The cattails are gone, replaced by a sophisticated stone garden framed by giant cherry blossom trees.

And there, sitting on the veranda, is a man smoking from a long, traditional pipe, one he recognizes as a _kiseru_ , similar to ones in his grandmother’s antique collection. Pale purple smoke swirls about him.

_Him_ , Ushijima is somewhat certain, because his figure’s slim and lean, almost drowning under the heavy, intricate maroon kimono, skin so pale it glows against the contrasting ebony wood of the building. His head is thrown back as smoke exits his mouth, wavy brown locks nestling against the nape of his neck.

His eyes gleam as he turns his gaze towards the visitor. Ushijima watches him, unfazed.

“Are you just going to stand there?” The man says, a small, amused smile playing at his lips.

“Where am I?” The tall, tanned man asks without any preamble, straight as an arrow.

“How rude,” he remarks, clicking his tongue, making no attempt to welcome his guest. He sighs upon seeing no reaction from Ushijima.

“This is a shop. A wish-giving shop. I am the owner. And you,” he straightens, “are my customer.”

He’s sat at a beautiful, azure-tiled table. In fact, Ushijima observes as Oikawa (“Fine, I’ll give you a name, though it’s not a real one”) sets down a tray of tea and biscuits, the whole room is tiled from wall-to-wall with the pale ocean blue. The space glitters around them, catching the evening sun from the single, large arched window on his left.

The shop owner settles into the seat opposite him, stirring his jasmine, that same amused expression from before colouring his features.

“You came to this shop because you have a wish,” he says. Ushijima raises an eyebrow.

“I did not come here.”

Oikawa scoffs. “Well, you’re here. And it’s a result of the inevitable. Sooner or later, you would’ve ended up at this place anyway. But it had been intended that you arrive here today, at this moment.”

“By who?”

Oikawa gestures vaguely. “Call it what you will; fate, destiny. What I can tell you is that there is no such thing as coincidence in this world. You are here because you are meant to be here.”

Ushijima is quiet for a while, absorbing his words. Oikawa takes a slow sip of the fragrant liquid, observing his guest. To his surprise, he finds that he can’t get anything out of the other man’s stoic, almost stern expression. _Odd_.

“I don’t have a wish.”

The man in the kimono eyes him. There’s that gleam again, like he’s reading something in his mind, something that Ushijima should be privy to because well, these are _his_ thoughts, but isn’t. 

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here,” he says. The taller man does not respond. _Stubborn_ , Oikawa thinks, and sighs.

“What about your beloved sport?” Ushijima visibly stiffens.

“Goals are not the same as dreams,” he replies evenly. Oikawa hums, resting his cheek on his hand, lazily chewing on a biscuit. The orange zest stings his tongue with its unpleasant bitterness.

“Maybe not. But they are wants. And human wants often override needs, so much so that it brings them misfortune. But my job is to fulfill those wants, not correct them.”

“I’ll achieve my own goals.”

Oikawa’s jaw tightens. He crushes the crumbs between his fingers into dust, watching them fall like snow onto his sauceplate. His eyes flicker back up to meet Ushijima’s cold gaze.

“I highly doubt so. Not with that shoulder of yours,” he drawls, lips tugging into a sly grin. 

Anger flashes across Ushijima’s eyes, his body tensing up completely, expression darkening.

“What do you want?” He bites out.

“Payment.” Oikawa smiles unabashedly, eyes crinkling at the corners. Ushijima feels his stomach tighten, eyes narrowing at the pale man.

“If it’s money you want, I’ve already talked to the doctors-”

“-and there’s nothing they can do, yes, I’m aware,” the shopkeeper continues, waving his hand dismissively. Ushijima’s shoulders relax, but he stays on guard. _Smart boy._

“Sadly, no amount of money you could get your hands on would be enough. But that’s not how it works here. You will only pay a price fitting of your wish. You shall not give more, or give less. And I shall accept neither excess nor deficit.”

The customer’s steely gaze does not falter. “What is my price?”

Oikawa’s grin widens, eyes alight.

“Grant me the same dedication you would towards your goal. Your time and your energy; that is the price.”

He holds out a slender hand. His skin is flawless, not having seen a day of work. Ushijima eyes the faint green and purple veins on the underside of his arm.

“You’re human.”

The shopkeeper’s expression falters as he tries to keep his mischievous, gleeful grin to a minimum. “Who knows,” he says with a shrug.

After a moment’s deliberation, taking into account all that’s been said, Ushijima slowly slots his palm into Oikawa’s, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against silky smooth ones.

The last thing he sees are fluorescent blue tendrils encasing their hands, solidifying their agreement and Oikawa’s bright eyes.

He wakes with a start, gasping for air, hair matted to the side of his face, shirt drenched with sweat. His vision pulls in and out of focus as he blinks the sleep away.

_A dream,_ he thinks to himself though every part of him screams the opposite.

He checks the clock on his bedside table. 6.15 A.M. He should get ready. There’s no reason to abandon his usual routine. So he sits up slowly, and takes a deep breath before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, heading straight for the bathroom.

He looks down at his hands in the shower, at the water that streams down his skin, at the veins that lead from the base of his hand up his forearm.

Phone fully charged. Socks. Shoes. Wallet. Keys. He’s good to go.

The cool spring air greets him as soon as he steps out of the lobby. So does the bustle of the city. All around him clergymen and women alike briskly walk by, immaculately dressed, most of them carrying the same leather briefcase at their sides.

He takes an alternate route, opting to explore the park nearby, subconsciously avoiding taking a chance through the neighbourhoods. It’s a good choice, because he makes it back with a coffee and salad an hour and a half later.

He’s got a class till noon and the rest of the day off. Maybe he’ll stop by the bakery.

It is 12.30 P.M. when he finds himself at the alleyway bakery, receiving his change and muttering his thanks that a strange breeze washes over him. He looks over his shoulder at the direction it had gone in. 

A bizarre sensation overcomes him as his body begins to move against his own will. Again, he thinks in the back of his mind, but can’t find, no, more like doesn’t bother to, attempt to stop himself.

He slows to a stop at the wisteria gate. Oikawa looks up from sweeping the cobblestone driveway to him, smiling.

“You’re early,” he says. Ushijima blinks, as if in a daze. 

“Is that for me? Thanks!” The shop owner swipes the bag of mini sponge cakes from his hand before he can reply. The taller man watches in mild horror as the brunette empties the paper bag in mere seconds, sucking his fingers with relish.

Oikawa turns to him, raising a curious eyebrow. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get to work.”

The shop owner waves him in for snacks a little while later. There’s a small table set up on the veranda with a plate of rice balls and some honey lemon tea poured into intricate gold-trimmed cups.

They sit with their light meal between them, looking out at the garden. Four trash bags filled with dried leaves sit by the gate, waiting to be disposed of. The few bonzai standing among the grey pebbles are pruned and proper.

As Ushijima looks out at the budding cherry blossoms, an intoxicating scent begins to fill his system. He turns to find Oikawa blowing out a sliver of smoke, the cherrywood _kiseru_ fitted between his lithe fingers. The shop owner notices him staring and turns with an inquiring smile.

“I’ve got an assignment due tomorrow. I’ll be off then,” Ushijima says flatly, finishing the last of his tea and setting the empty cup down. Oikawa waves him off half-heartedly, head tilted skyward.

He leaves with a polite nod and the taste of honey lingering on his tongue.

* * *

He’s never been one to dream. 

Or, even if he does, it’s usually over before he realizes, dissolving into the depths of his consciousness as soon as he wakes up, like cotton candy in water.

He stands in a field. A paddy field to be exact. Water up to his shins, toes digging into the mud. It is silent but for the rustling of leaves as the plants sway along to a soft breeze. The familiar ringing of windchimes catches his attention. 

He turns around to see a gazebo stood just slightly ahead of him, built right in the middle of the field. A table for two is set; teacups and biscuits and all. A shadowy figure is seated in one of the two rattan chairs, holding a hand out in invitation.

He finds himself drawn to it, wading through the golden stalks almost desperately, the muddy water sloshing up to his knees. He’s close, so close. He thrusts his hand forward just as another chime ripples through the space.

* * *

Ushijima shows up with two bags of baked goods the next day.

Oikawa regards him with mild surprise, raising his eyebrows, eyes widening ever so slightly. He then turns away with a dismissive wave of his hand, focusing his attention back to sorting through the bundles of kimono fabric stacked up around him.

“Put it in the kitchen,” the shop owner says simply. Ushijima lets himself in, pardoning for the intrusion.

Inside, the space isn’t what he’d expected it to be; to his right are long, dark hallways. Either side is lined with shoji panels and heavy, wooden doors. They seem to go on forever. Ottoman lamps light the corridors, casting a colourful glow as far as the eye can see.

To his left, strangely, is a more modern layout; a simple living room with natural light filtering in through the paned windows, a wooden spiral staircase leading up to the second floor and the kitchen nestled beneath it; European style with cream-coloured cabinets, lightwood countertops and a wall of alcohol.

As he steps in, he can’t help but appreciate the well-kept space; neat despite its many little trinkets and most importantly, clean. Then, his eyes roam the exposed shelves and he begins to notice boxes upon boxes of instant food.

It’s a thing of nightmares to open one cabinet after another only to find ten different brands of ramen and the cheapest boxed cookies. He exits to the veranda feeling a little winded. Oikawa looks at him curiously.

“You didn’t go into any of the other rooms, did you?” He asks, vaguely alarmed. Ushijima wordlessly shakes his head, though his troubled expression doesn’t fade.

“Hm. Well, there’s still stuff to do in the garden. Get to it, then.”

* * *

It is Oikawa who comes to him the next day. He’s sitting in the window of the most expensive cafe on campus, sipping on an iced latte, dressed impeccably in a navy pinstripe suit. Surrounding him are a gaggle of girls, cooing and inquiring about his school, age and phone number.

“I’m a free spirit. Phones are a no-no. Sorry, ladies,” he says smoothly, not at all sounding in the least apologetic, lips curved into a charming smile. Ushijima stands on the outskirts of the ring of girls, waiting patiently, expression slack.

“Ah, looks like it’s about time to go. Wouldn’t want to keep my client waiting,” he says, nonchalantly brandishing a golden pocket watch. He spots Ushijima’s towering figure and sends him a quick wink before attempting to extract himself from the growing crowd.

“Will you come visit again?” Asks one of the faceless students. Oikawa sticks his bottom lip out, tapping his chin with a perfectly manicured fingernail.

“Maybe,” he says after a quick moment but it’s clear as day that no, they probably won’t ever see him again. 

It will be just a passing memory to these women; one they’ll reminisce along the lines of _remember that good-looking guy at that cafe one day, wonder what happened to him._

He waves them off cheerily as they pout and croon their goodbyes. Ushijima follows behind stiffly. Surprisingly, they don’t exit the campus, instead venturing further in, towards the Arts and Social Sciences buildings.

“Where are we going?” Ushijima asks rather belatedly. Oikawa hums.

“I got a call last night from one of the professors. Something about an artefact,”he answers offhandedly. Ushijima quirks an eyebrow.

“How did they get your number?” He didn’t think the shop could really qualify to apply for a landline.

Oikawa gives him a knowing smile. “They didn’t. Called thinking it was a wrong number, but of course, it wasn’t. I picked up and we made an appointment then and there.”

“Hn.”

“By the way,” the shop owner turns to him with that chilling gleam in his eye, just as they enter the History department’s building, “this will be your first job in the field.”

Ushijima doesn’t quite catch her name. He’s sure he will barely remember her after this, either. He stands by Oikawa, silently observing her as she details her current predicament. 

“I always double, triple check even, to make sure they’re safe in this room every time before I leave. They’re always there, on the shelf. But then I get home and I find them just sitting there on the dining table-”

The lady holds her head in her hands, letting out a shaky breath. Oikawa makes no move to comfort her, and instead closely (very closely) studies the artefacts. Sitting on the shelf are half a dozen clay dolls. Their curved, feminine abstract lines are smooth, sanded down by time. Amazingly, all of them are in near-perfect condition. [ ref ](https://heritageofjapan.wordpress.com/just-what-was-so-amazing-about-jomon-japan/ways-of-the-jomon-world-2/jomon-crafts-and-what-they-were-for/the-mystery-of-the-clay-dolls/)

There’s a sudden crashing behind them as the lady stumbles into a stack of toolboxes. Instinctively, Ushijima’s hand shoots out to grab her by the elbow before she can hit the ground. Her complexion is pale, her skin an almost sickly gray. Sweat beads roll down the side of her face. As she struggles to her feet, she rasps a _thanks_.

“I haven’t been feeling well these past few days. Overwork, probably,” she says dismissively with a nervous laugh as Ushijima slides a stool towards her. Oikawa finally turns to them, having apparently concluded his appraisal.

“Would you mind explaining what these figurines are to my assistant here, if it isn’t too much trouble? I’m afraid he’s a bit of a novice,” he requests suddenly, stealing a playful glance at the other man. The lady nods, a tired smile forming on her lips.

“They’re from the Jomon period, said to be used for agricultural fertility rituals. I was really happy to be able to get my hands on a few, but perhaps I got a little carried away…” She trails off, sighing to herself mournfully.

“Is this some kind of bad omen?” She asks the man in the pinstripe suit. Oikawa suppresses a smile. 

“Just the opposite,” he says simply. The lady perks up at that, knitting her brows in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“How long have you been sick?”

She pauses, puzzled by the abrupt question and thinks about it for a second. “A couple of weeks but it’s been sporadic, why?”

Oikawa turns to face them fully, a smile, a genuine one curving into his features.

“ _‘Agricultural fertility rituals’_ you said. But other than that, they were used as protective charms against illnesses, death and also,” his voice softens uncharacteristically, “as symbols for reproduction and the regeneration of life.”

It seems to dawn on her then, her eyes going wide, skin colouring in a blush as she subconsciously brings her hand up to her stomach.

“You should take a visit to the clinic one of these days,” Oikawa suggests with a charming wink. The lady nods, in a daze.

“And what about them?” All three of their gazes turn to the clay women lying on the shelf.

“They were just protecting you,” the shop owner replies.

“So what should I do?” She asks, her voice thickening with emotion. Oikawa straightens.

“Thank them.”

“How did you know?” Ushijima asks later as they exit the campus along with a steady trickle of other students heading for supper. Oikawa hums.

“Basic deduction,” he replies, holding up their payment to the light; a clear glass thermos of herbal tea. They continue walking in thoughtful silence for a few minutes until Ushijima slows to a stop by a nearby grocery store.

“Why are you…” Oikawa trails off as the other man turns into the store, ignoring him. Letting out a noise of annoyance, he takes a seat at the bus stop standing on the opposite side of the street and waits. And waits.

He checks his watch. It is fifteen minutes later when Ushijima reappears with three bags full of groceries. Oikawa stares at his back as they continue their journey back to the shop, puzzled.

“Do you eat that much?” He asks.

“This isn’t for me,” is all he says until they finally reach the familiar wisteria-arched gate. Oikawa gawks as the other man lets himself in.

“I didn’t tell you to buy any of that so you’re not going to get any reimbursement for it,” he harrumphs, sitting at the kitchen counter with his chin on his hand as he watches Ushijima unload the goods.

“It’s fine.”

Oikawa’s frown deepens. “Why are you doing this, anyway?”

“You have no fresh food. It’s unhealthy.”

“Well, I don’t cook either so there’s really no point.”

“I know.”

Oikawa narrows his eyes at Ushijima’s back. “So you’re gonna have to cook for me if you don’t want that to go to waste.” 

“Yes.” The shop owner is obviously taken aback by that, taking to staring at him suspiciously in silence.

“I’ll be off then,” Ushijima says later and rounds the gate without another word, disappearing behind the wooden fence. Oikawa watches his retreating figure, _kiseru_ balanced between his fingers, blowing out a puff of smoke, head tilted to the waning moon.

“Do what you want.”

* * *

The smell of red wine and tomato infused with bay leaves wafts through the air.

Ushijima sets the two plates of steaming fluffy white rice topped with vegetables and generous chunks of beef cooked in brown sauce on the table between them, folding his legs under him. Saying their thanks, they dig into their first shared home cooked meal.

Today, they sit at the deck protruding onto the back yard, extended over a fish pond. It’s a different feel here compared to the front. Moss covers ground, ferns sprouting up haphazardly, wild flowers dotting the semi-forested landscape.

The sky is a clear blue, clouds like cotton balls suspended with a uniform sort of regularity, drifting by at a snail’s pace, birds chirp. The sounds of the city are faraway, almost inaudible. It is a peaceful quiet but for the soft clinks of their utensils and the running water from a mini fountain.

Ushijima then feels a gaze on him, one equally as silent as their surroundings, and lacking any of its usual bite. His eyes flicker up, chopsticks halfway in his mouth which he then sets down just as Oikawa turns away, looking out at the budding rose bushes lining the back fence.

“How is it?” He asks in that baritone of his that seems to travel through the sturdy wood. Oikawa hums, taking a sip of wine.

“Promising,” he replies. That seems to satisfy the chef. Oikawa smiles amusedly, more to himself than anything.

“You cook, you clean, you do the gardening… Maybe you should consider settling down with some nice girl, become a househusband instead,” the shop owner teases. 

He doesn’t get a response and has no time to demand one before there’s a jingling of shrine bells coming from the front gate as a cart pulls into the cobblestone driveway. 

It looks like one of those popcorn carts in theme parks, but bigger and much more grand. Its cherrywood body gleams, the embossed golden sun and moon emblems at its sides glittering harshly under the light of the sun. Setting down the hand-drawn cart with its four unlit lanterns hanging from each corner is a toned man with straw-coloured eyes.

Wiping off the sweat from his brow, he adjusts his _hachimaki,_ before turning to find the shop owner sitting on the veranda, watching him with a smirk. 

“A house call in the daytime? How rare,” he says, a playful lilt to his velvety voice. 

The man clicks his tongue irritably, cranking some levers and adjusting bronze dials in a compartment built into the side of his cart. 

“I just happened to be in the area. The Sanja festival is coming up. I’m busy, ya know?” He snaps. Oikawa hums.

“And you still made time for this old shopkeeper. What a pleasure.” 

Ushijima appears from the shop bearing the lacquer box he’d been instructed to retrieve. The cartman finishes his set up with a sigh, pulling out a cigarette from the pocket of his black _jinbei_ shorts.

Behind him, the machine within the cart begins to whir as its gears begin to turn. The liquid that encapsulates it begins to bubble from what Ushijima can see through the decorative stained glass surrounding it.

“Lighter?” He requests, approaching them. Ushijima stiffly holds out the one Oikawa had asked for along with the lacquer box as the man leans down. It’s a sleek silver thing with carvings of flowers and makes a metallic sound as he clicks on it, lighting the cigarette.

The cartman’s hooded eyes meet his as he nods a low thanks. They’re golden with black slits for pupils. Much like a fox’s. 

“Your new assistant?” The blonde asks, addressing the shop owner. Oikawa watches the cart’s machinations with a faint smile. 

“Yes.”

The fox-like man chuckles, clapping Ushijima on the shoulder. “Job of a lifetime, ya got here. I feel sorry for ya,” he jabs, then, “May I?”

Ushijima wordlessly hands him the lacquer box. The man whistles appreciatively as he opens it, eyeing the _kiseru_ sitting comfortably in its maroon velvet enclosure.

“This beauty never ages, does she?” He says, holding it delicately, studying every detail with those gleaming eyes.

“She’s a little out of sorts at the moment. Hence, why I called you, Miya-san,” Oikawa replies. The man - Miya - grins.

“It’s not too serious from what I can gather. A few scratches here and there. Nothin’ a little polish can’t fix,” he observes.

“Is it ready?” Oikawa asks, pointing his chin at the cart. Miya nods. They watch from the veranda as he slots the head and mouth piece into a little opening in the roof, watch as the machine’s rollers and pincers deal with it with a precision only an automaton can achieve.

Meanwhile, Miya crouches down, pulling open a drawer and producing a lacquer box similar to Oikawa’s own. Inside it are dozens of pipes of varying colour and size.

“What will it be?”

The shop owner doesn’t hesitate, lithe fingers closing around a white pipe with a slight blue tint the length of his forearm. Miya smirks.

“Of course.”

It is sunset by the time Miya the cartman pulls out of the driveway with his fee; the youngest branch from the oldest cherry blossom growing in the garden. The lanterns hanging from each corner glow red as the sky above.

They remain on the veranda as Oikawa smokes from his newly-cleaned pipe, purple smoke snaking through the air from his nostrils. Ushijima watches as the tall buildings dwarfing them reflect the ever changing colours of the setting sun.

The pipe comes into his view, wisps of smoke escaping its head.

He turns to find Oikawa holding his hand out, looking at him expectantly. His pale skin is dyed pink now, his hazel eyes warm and muted, an invitation making itself known within them.

Ushijima leans forward slowly, his lips meeting the silver mouthpiece. He breathes in, holding the shop owner’s gaze, and feels the aromatic smoke fill his lungs. It isn’t harsh, not at all, instead smooth and soothing.

He straightens and exhales to the sky. The purple of the smoke matches that of the clouds.

* * *

He dreams again that night.

This time, he’s in the shop’s backyard, looking in from across the fish pond, through the glass panels of the corridor leading to the many mysterious rooms.

The sounds of the garden surrounding him are heightened; he can hear every rustle made by the little critters hiding among the shrubbery, every cricket leaping about from leaf to leaf, every drop of morning dew falling off the petals of early-blooming flowers.

Yes, it’s morning, he somehow remembers. The mist hangs just over his head. The air is cool and humid.

Just then, the shadowy figure from his previous dream appears. It floats down the corridor before slowing to a stop. Ushijima feels himself freeze up as it turns its gaze outside, towards him. But it doesn’t seem to notice him at all as it slides the glass panel open and sits on the edge, toes barely touching the surface of the pond.

It just sits there for a long time, oblivious to the man watching it from the garden.

* * *

The boy walks out after about an hour or two. He barely looks at Ushijima as he passes him by, exiting through the hanging wisteria vines, feet dragging. His eyes are listless, as if in a daze, shoulders wilted under some invisible weight.

Oikawa’s footsteps are heavy against the wooden floor, and heavier even is his sigh as he deposits himself on the veranda, lighting his pipe.

“He wanted to see his grandmother,” he says a moment later, voice hollow. Ushijima waits for him to continue, tending to the flowers.

“I can’t grant that wish, you know. Bringing back the dead.”

“I don’t think anyone has the power to do that.”

Oikawa chuckles darkly. “It isn’t about power; there is nothing in this world that could ever be an equal price.”

“‘An eye for an eye’. What about trading lives?”

“It isn’t that easy. Age, values, experiences… they all weigh differently. No one soul is equal to another.”

“Hn.”

A beat.

“Stay the night. I have something to show you.”

Dinner is a simple affair of chicken broth ramen and grilled pork. After, Oikawa tosses him a brown yukata and tells him to freshen up.

He finds himself wandering the corridors some time later, vision guided only by the colourful mosaic lamps. As he walks further down the neverending tunnel-like space, he begins to realize that no two doors are the same; some are heavy wood with intricate carvings, some are frosted glass and some are everyday and plain.

He loses track of time and place and somehow ends up at the veranda. The full moon is out. Leaning against one of the shoji panels, he watches the sky for a while. Then, he hears wood creaking behind him. He whips his head around.

Then, he’s staring straight into a pair of brown eyes, paled by the light of the moon, making them seem colder than they usually are. Oikawa doesn’t even flinch, just walks past him and takes a seat on the floor, placing a bottle of sake and two glasses beside him, midnight blue kimono fanning out. It’s a fancy one, with prints of silver bamboo and cranes. 

He lights his kiseru and allows the smoke to pour out from his mouth, purple smoke weaving through the air. A few moments pass in silence before the shop owner sighs.

“What are you doing standing there? Sit,” he says, annoyance tinging his voice. The man does as he is told and lowers himself, keeping a measured distance between them.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything and surprisingly, pours them both a drink. For a while they just sit like that, nothing but the sound of the trees swaying to the cool breeze, bringing with it a vaguely familiar, sweet scent.

“It’s time,” Oikawa says, breaking the comfortable silence. Ushijima steals a glance at him and follows his gaze to the garden, specifically to the cherry blossom trees lining the wooden fence.

At first, it looks to be just the moon and its light reflecting ever so slightly off the leaves and buds. Until the flowers begin to bloom.

It is slow, yet quick. It is bright, almost blinding, yet muted. It is music without any sound. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath, watching entranced as the buds ripen before his very eyes into full blossoms. 

It looks artificial almost, like those LED sculptures at the parks during Christmas. But nothing unnatural such as that could ever move a person like watching life bloom right in front of you.

Oikawa rises from his seat and begins to walk across the garden, towards the most ancient tree of them all, one that provides shade to half the compound, standing as tall as the fourth floor of the buildings surrounding the shop’s lot.

He brings his hands up just as a particularly harsh gust of wind washes over, sending the growth around them aflurry. Ushijima watches with baited breath as the blossoms drift slowly down, falling like stars.

On Oikawa’s outstretched palms lay a pile of rogue petals, glowing just as brightly as the moon above. He then turns to Ushijima with a solemn look, lips parting.

“Walk with me.”

They enter through the gash in the ancient trunk, stepping into darkness. There is nothing but the glow of the petals in Oikawa’s hands.

Here, it is neither hot nor cold. Here, it is too bright yet so dark his mind can’t seem to comprehend it. He watches as the wind runs through Oikawa’s hair, watches as his kimono flutters, but can’t feel a lick of it himself.

“Human greed has no bounds. So much greed for a species that has only existed for a fraction of a second. Do you agree?”

Oikawa’s voice is all around him, coming in waves, each word strung out, like he’s speaking to him through a long, long pipe.

“Yes,” Ushijima replies. He catches the smile that curves into the other man’s lips.

“Do you think you will ever satiate your greed, even after your wish is granted?”

He doesn’t even need to think. “No.”

Oikawa nods. “That’s what keeps the world turning. These wishes, desires, these _wants_. It gives humans purpose in this blip of a life. Something to live for, to try for.”

“And that’s why I met you,” Ushijima’s baritone rings around the void, travelling from one end to another, like a boomerang being thrown and curving back. The shop owner turns to him, eyes sad.

“Yes.”

“Who are you, actually?” The question is a long time coming. One that’s been asked before, but not in the same way it is now. There’s a new weight to those words.

“I am the Shopkeeper. The bridge between this world and one that is not.”

“Are you still Oikawa?”

Oikawa the Shopkeeper hums thoughtfully. “The time will come where I won’t be. But for now, yes.”

They’ve stopped walking now. The glow of the petals is duller, the void around them encroaching closer and closer into the space where the light is weakest. Oikawa turns to face him.

_He’s beautiful,_ Ushijima thinks subconsciously. The wind returns, ruffling the shopkeeper’s clothes, hair in a flurry. It disappears a fraction of a second later, bringing with it most of the petals.

All Ushijima can see now is a faint outline of the other man, slowly growing less and less visible.

“I have a customer to attend to. Good night.”

His vision darkens, the void swallowing him whole.

He’s at a shrine. It is a dull, autumn day. A small boy along with his mother and grandmother stand at the altar, palms pressed together in prayer.

He’s on a hill, overlooking a field of paddy. The boy is a little older, a ball held between his small hands. Someone calls out to him from a little ways away and he turns towards it.

He’s in the front porch of a large, modern villa. The boy is about to graduate elementary school. He watches as the taxi takes off down the street, getting farther and farther away from him.

He’s in a gymnasium. The boy is now in middle school. He bends his knees and jumps, the ball connecting with his palm.

He’s in a stadium. The boy is in his final year of high school. His teammates pounce on him, celebrating their win. In the locker room, he is alone, stripping the tape holding his left shoulder together.

The dream ends.

“Good evening,” Oikawa greets. He’s sat on the veranda again. There is no moon here, only the dull yellow streetlights standing just beyond the wooden fence lining the shop.

“Good evening,” an older voice replies. Sitting beside him now is a middle-aged man with a thick, greying beard and deep lines set around the corners of his eyes framed by angular eyebrows.

“You’re his father, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Oikawa smiles, tilting his head respectfully. 

“You saw them didn’t you?” The older man says. The shop owner hums.

“The demons? Yes. They were there, lingering in the background. Passive.”

“Some of those are probably my fault.”

“Maybe. But not only yours. There’s never a sole culprit.”

A brief pause. “You’re right.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do anything about them.”

“I didn’t expect you to. Those are his trials to face. You gave him the push he needed. For that, I thank you.”

He pushes forward an envelope. Oikawa accepts it graciously.

“May I?” The older man nods in ascent.

Carefully, he opens it and pulls out a single piece of paper. On it is a single handprint dated the year 2000; left, small, signed and true.

* * *

Ushijima’s eyes flutter open. Immediately his mind is assaulted by the noise of the traffic below.

That hadn’t been any strange dream. Those were memories.

He checks the clock on his bedside table. He should be able to make it to practice early today.

* * *

It is summer. 

Oikawa appears seemingly fresh out of the shower in a dark, silk robe embroidered with red butterflies. The look on his face is mildly disgruntled, having been rushed to the front gate at an earlier hour.

Ushijima holds out a bag. Oikawa accepts it, raising a questioning eyebrow. It’s still warm.

“I have a meeting today,” he says. That surprises the shop owner, but he doesn’t let it show, instead nodding in understanding. Ushijima turns to leave, just as fast as he had arrived, much to Oikawa’s disappointment.

Later, the shop owner sits at his dining table, staring at the neatly stacked containers of food. There’s enough for lunch, tea and dinner. Maybe supper if he rations it properly. 

He takes his time plating the meal, carefully transferring the contents onto the dish. He even arranges the side dishes as best as he can.

He ends up staring at his lunch (fried mackerel, soba, pickled radishes and chawanmushi packed in a custard jar), hating the way the sound of his utensils ring throughout the empty building. 

He doesn’t know when he’d started disliking eating alone.

Throughout summer, Ushijima quickly learns three things about the strange man in the strange shop:

One, is that he has a sweet tooth. With the amount of requests he has for desserts and ice cream in particular to battle the heat (and the number of times Ushijima has relented to said requests, every time), Ushijima is constantly surprised at how he hasn’t contracted any serious diseases. 

Then, the taller man remembers that Oikawa may or may not be human and has probably lived longer than his grandmother. He wonders if human illnesses applied to the otherworldly.

“If they did, I wouldn’t be here,” Oikawa says, chewing loudly on his slice of watermelon. Ushijima calmly holds his hand out, offering another. 

To his surprise, Oikawa leans in, mouth slightly agape, and lightly, just lightly licks the pads of his fingers before taking a bite. With a smirk, he falls back into his chair, reaching into the ice box beside him and nonchalantly pulls out a chocolate popsicle instead.

Ushijima doesn’t miss the faint pink juice running down the skin of his throat. Swallowing, he finishes the slice in his hand in an attempt to be rid of the heat that spreads throughout his body.

Two, is that he is rather shameless.

Over the course of his two and a half months of holiday, Ushijima walks in on Oikawa naked (or almost so) about a dozen times. Often, it is with a towel on his head, bigger than that tied around his hips as he steps out, fresh from a cold shower. Or maybe it’s him taking a dip in the pond at dusk, surrounded by fragrant flowers.

“It’s for good luck. Would you like to join me?” He asks with a teasing lilt, a playful smirk on his lips as he rests his head in his arms, leaning against the backyard deck.

Ushijima promptly ignores him, going back to peeling potatoes for dinner.

And three, is that Oikawa is even more blunt and sharp-tongued while drunk.

“Hey, are you a prude or something?” He slurs one night, after a particularly opulent feast of sashimi and two bottles of sake. He’s leaning close, so close, grabbing the collar of his yukata. Ushijima can feel his breath against his cheek. It is a hot night. 

“No,” he replies stiffly.

“You sure act like one. It’s a little pathetic.” The brunette utters, obviously trying to get under his skin. He lets out a little chuckle, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss on Ushijima’s jaw, tongue darting out to lick and suckle at his neck.

With a growl, Ushijima roughly grabs both the shop owner’s hands and pushes him to the cool, wooden floor, pinning him underneath. His eyes are dark, eyebrows knitted in a scowl. All the while, Oikawa smiles.

“You wouldn’t.”

Ushijima glares at him, chest heaving, searching for something, but what? An invitation? A provocation?

Whatever it is, he doesn't find what he’s looking for because Oikawa’s eyes are fluttering close, and soon, his breathing evens as he passes out. Ushijima curses, and lets go of the other man.

He satisfies himself while watching; the way the shopkeeper’s chest rises and falls, milky skin peeking from under his kimono, the flutter of his long eyelashes, the curves and contours of his face, the sheen of saliva on his lips.

He leaves before daybreak, throwing a blanket over the other man.

* * *

They arrive at the funeral home at dusk.

“It won’t open, you see,” explains one of the employees, Matsukawa or something-or-other. Oikawa tries to slide the shoji panel open, to no avail. He purses his lips.

“Family?”

“None. Came from the hospital. There was a death certificate and everything, but no contactable details. No idea how it got past. But whoever it was wired in money for a service just this afternoon.” 

“We’ll be here awhile. You can leave it to us.” Relieved to be free of his duties, the employee says his thanks and makes a beeline for the break room. Ushijima sits a little ways away, watching Oikawa reservedly from behind.

“Your name is a false one. Do you have a reason for this?” He begins, talking to the sliding door. Nothing happens. Oikawa lets out a dissatisfied grunt.

“Not a single relative. No one is here to confirm your identity.” The door rattles. Provocation seems to be the trick.

“You’re alone, nowhere to go. Soon, you’ll be cremated and your remains interred. You’ll disappear, just like that.”

The lights flicker. Oikawa stands his grown, expression growing more determined. 

“State your truth. What is it that you wish for?”

Silence. Then, a soft hiss, one that makes the hairs on Ushijima’s neck stand.

_‘Get away,’_ comes a voice like nails on a chalkboard. The lights seem to dim, the shadows in the space elongating, growing more pronounced.

“No harm will come to you. I am here to help.”

_‘Witch,’_ it says, scathing. Ushijima doesn’t miss the quirk of the shop owner’s lips.

“That, I do not deny.”

The room groans, the shoji panels separating them from the thing in the room rattles violently.

_‘You do not understand.’_

“I stand closer to death than you do, my friend, believe me.”

The noise stops.

_‘You lie.’_

“I wouldn’t lie to one who has suffered so.” 

A long pause. It is as silent as the vacuum of space. Ushijima’s ears begin to ring. _‘My wish,’_ the voice says, considering, as if deep in thought.

_‘Peace. Beauty. Paradise.’_

From the sleeves of his haori, Oikawa produces a palmful of dried cherry blossom petals. It doesn’t escape Ushijima that they might very well be ones from the night of the blooming.

The witch then presses his hand to the screen, muttering a sutra. The petals disappear when he pulls away. Inside the room, wind howls. It is sad, grievous, _human_. 

Ushijima swallows.

Then, a sigh of relief, one that seems to breathe life back into the room.

_‘Thank you.’_

There is a solemn quiet that befalls them then. Ushijima watches as Oikawa draws in a slow, deep breath. His cheeks are stained with tears.

“The wish has been granted.”

A book sits waiting on the veranda when they arrive back at the shop. It is an old, beautiful leather-bound thing. Inside, are pressed flowers, perfectly arranged and preserved. Hundreds of pages of them.

“The price has been paid,” Oikawa says under his breath and retires into the shop for the night without another word, the book held fast to his chest.

He spots it on his way back.

It’s a somewhat familiar sight, with four lanterns glowing red at each corner. It’s a little smaller, more akin to a hawker cart. Its cherrywood body is the same. The wooden signboard reads _‘Kitsune Dine-In._ A delicious smell wafts through the air.

Ducking into the makeshift stall, Ushijima finds himself eye-to-eye with a pair of golden, gleaming eyes under hooded eyelids. The hawker greets him with the same thick Kansai dialect. He’s lean, with dark hair and an overall calm demeanour.

“Welcome to Kitsune Dine-In, what will ya be havin’ today?”

“Tonkotsu ramen.”

“Comin’ right up.”

The sounds of soup boiling and knives against a chopping board fill the space. Ushijima watches as the man expertly prepares the dish. The bowl is served before him in no time.

“Complementary,” the man says as he pushes forward a platter of onigiri. Ushijima says his thanks and starts on his meal.

“Yer not from around here, are ya?” The man says suddenly. Ushijima hums, confirming his suspicions. 

“Not from Tokyo, not from _here_ , either. What’s yer deal?”

“I work at the shop.”

The man whistles appreciatively. “Ya don’t say. Must be the new assistant. My brother told me about ya.”

“Miya-san.”

“He’s Atsumu, I’m Osamu. Nice to meet yer acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” he slurps up the last of his noodles and digs into the rice balls. 

The man taps his finger on the counter, thinking hard about something before speaking again. “Ya know, it ain’t my business, but I’ve known that shopkeeper for a while now and...”

Ushijima stills, looking up from his meal at the hawker, puzzled. Osamu meets his gaze, eyes grave.

“It’s probably nothin’, but you should look out for him.”

Waving the thought away, he goes back to busying himself. Ushijima finishes the last of his food.

“How should I pay?”

Osamu gives him a lopsided smile. “I’ll put it on the shop’s tab. Hope to see ya around,” he says, waving him off with a small salute. Ushijima nods his thanks and makes his way back home through the streets of a bustling Tokyo City.

* * *

He’s sitting on the veranda. It is a moonless night. Nothing but the dull, yellow street lights lining the wooden fence. The trees are bare. It is deathly quiet.

Beside him sits the shadowy figure, its head tilted towards the sky, as if desperately searching for the moon. There are no stars, either.

It turns to him then, and though it has no face, Ushijima somehow makes out a sad smile, one that is so familiar it knocks the wind out of him.

He wakes with a start, gasping for air. 

* * *

It storms.

Ushijima steals a glance at Oikawa over the pages of his textbook to find the shop owner gazing ruefully out the glass sliding doors, chin on his hand. Outside, the plants are taking something of a beating, the pond overflowing onto the backyard deck.

“Something's coming,” he says, voice steely. He shoots from his seat suddenly then, “Stand back.”

Ushijima barely has enough time to jump out of the way before the glass shatters, shards of it missing him by a hair’s breadth as they embed themselves in the wall behind him.

Oikawa stands defiantly, an arm outstretched, the loose fabric of his kimono flapping wildly about, hair a flurry. Rising from the shadows of the trees, an enormous figure begins to materialize out of rain and mud; a monstrous embodiment of the storm.

It takes the form of a disfigured face with exaggerated, fierce features; sharp, crystalline teeth bared in a snarl. Lightning bolts as tendrils sprout from its head.

_‘Witch,’_ it growls. Oikawa grins, teeth gritted from effort.

“You dare trespass the shop?” He bites out. The thing laughs and it’s a rumbling, guttural sound.

_‘I wouldn’t call it trespassing as much as strolling in. You didn’t seem to put up much of a fight,’_ it mocks.

“We’ll see about that,” the man hisses. 

His palm begins to glow, a turquoise ribbon of magic runes encircling his arms. It begins to snake out towards the monster, like serpents going in for the kill. The thing roars, the force of the storm unleashing upon them.

The wind howls, thunder clapping. Steady streams of blood run down the length of the shopkeeper’s arm.

“Leave,” Oikawa bellows. The ribbon entangles around the creature, beginning to glow ever the brighter.

_‘Your time is close, witch. Soon, I will escape and ravage this realm. You will watch as your world perishes, I’ll make sure of it,’_ it growls, snapping uselessly at its chains. The ribbons tighten around it, glowing a hot, searing white. Ushijima looks away as it bursts into a light shower of rain.

Suddenly, it is silent. Then, not a moment later, the crickets begin their song once more.

Oikawa’s arm drops to his side, his palm steaming, flesh exposed. He turns to Ushijima, lips parted as if to say something but he doesn’t get to, and collapses to the floor.

When he comes to, it’s to the smell of honey and cinnamon. It is warm. His arm doesn’t hurt, instead throbbing dully under its bandages. He sits up with a groan to find Ushijima’s head in his lap, seemingly sound asleep.

He touches his fingers gently to the man’s forehead. Immediately, he stirs, gaze finding his, green on brown.

“How long?” Oikawa asks, voice hushed.

“Two days.”

Oikawa nods, lowering himself back onto his pillow. He lets out a sigh.

“I’m dying.”

“I know.”

The shopkeeper turns to the other man, a smile curving into his lips. “You want to tell me something.”

Ushijima seems to weigh his words carefully before speaking. “I dreamt about you.”

“That’s nice.”

“I never saw your face, you were just a shadow. But I could tell.”

Oikawa hums thoughtfully. “Seems about right. Don’t worry. There will be another after me. And another after that and so on. We are the balance. We will always exist.”

“But you won’t.”

Oikawa chuckles. “You’re right. _I_ won’t.” 

His hand rises to cup the side of Ushijima’s face. The man regards the action with mild surprise before melting into the touch, features softening.

“So make it worthwhile, won’t you?”

Ushijima isn’t a prude, not in the least. 

Oikawa wonders why they hadn’t done this before, as his mouth wraps around him. He lets out a small whimper as the other man begins to move along his length, head bobbing. The pads of his fingers are rough, but his handling of the shop owner’s hips are gentle, guiding.

Lithe fingers curl in his hair, unexpectedly soft and silky, urging him to pick up the pace. Oikawa falls apart easily, filling his warmth in Ushijima’s throat.

The kiss that comes right after is wet and tender. He can taste himself, and also a bit of the honey from the tea. Ushijima, he concludes, is a gentle man. He finds that he likes that aspect of him very much.

Likes that he whispers sweet praises in his ear, likes the way his eyes soften when their gazes meet, likes the soft caress of his thumb under his eye as he wipes the tears away.

Oikawa is, has always been and will always be the most beautiful under the moonlight. Tonight, it dyes him a pale blue hue, but it is one that does little to drown out the blush of his cheeks or the pink of his lips.

For once, the shopkeeper is at his mercy. For once, it is Ushijima telling him how he wants something done, how he wants to hear his voice, how he coaxes a climax out of Oikawa, one that is music to his ears. 

After, for once, Oikawa lets his guard down and buries his head in Ushijima’s chest and cries into his throat. Ushijima holds him close, one hand carding through his hair, another rubbing circles into his back.

When he falls asleep, he doesn’t dream in the way he normally does. This time, he’s alone, listening to the cherry blossoms sway in the wind. 

All he does is sit on the veranda, head turned to the moon framed by silver clouds.

* * *

A few days later, it snows.

They sit on the deck, buried under the _kotatsu_. Oikawa lays between his legs, head against his chest as he lazily skims through a worn down book. 

月の輝くは

晴れたる雪の如し

梅花は

照れる星に似たり

“The moon sparkles like new fallen snow

The plum blossoms resemble shining stars.”

His voice rings throughout their silent enclosure. 

The night is still, the garden carpeted white. The only sound is the trickling of water into the heated pond, where the koi swim around obliviously, the only splash of colour in an otherwise paper-white world. 

Oikawa’s voice hums throughout his body as he continues reciting poems. Ushijima shifts the both of them so they’re lying down. Now, his arms are around the other man, his face in his hair, breathing in the smell of honey and sake.

Soon, his breathing evens out. Oikawa stops reading and gently extracts himself from the larger man’s arms, taking care so as not to wake him. He cards his fingers through Ushijima’s hair, a sad smile playing at his lips as he watches the man sleep.

Turning his gaze towards the night sky dotted with stars, he allows a single tear to escape.

“The price has been paid,” he whispers.

A single drop of water lands on his cheek. Ushijima’s fingers twitch and his eyes flutter open.

He sits up, all warmth having left him. But it isn’t cold. In fact, it’s that feeling again, where it’s two things at once, cancelling each other out and leaving nothing.

He’s in the void.

“Oikawa,” he calls out, his voice travelling forward and coming back to him from behind. In the distance, a lone, glowing figure stands.

He takes a step forward, and another, until he’s running, hand outstretched desperately.

And then, the shopkeeper is _right there_ , staring at him with sad, sad eyes, a broken smile curved into his lips. 

“I’m afraid I have to go now,” he says. Ushijima clenches his fists and makes to grab hold of him, but he finds that he can’t move.

“You can’t leave like this,” he says. Oikawa regards him solemnly.

“I have to.”

Ushijima struggles, ordering every fibre of his body to move. His efforts lie in vain. 

“You... never told me your name,” he says, as if only just coming to the realization. It falls on him like a ton of bricks. He doesn’t know a thing about this man others call the Shopkeeper.

“Names, Ushijima Wakatoshi, are a tool. Give someone your true name and they can lay stake to your soul,” Oikawa says evenly.

Ushijima waits intently. The shopkeeper relents a smile, a genuine, true smile.

“That being said, my name is Tooru. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Tooru,” Ushijima repeats, voice hoarse.

“Yes.”

“You're human.”

“Yes. I am.”

“I won’t forget it.”

“I’d hope so. Thank you.”

There is nothing. All Ushijima can do is drink in the sight of him, memorizing every curve, contour and dip of his body, the glow of his skin, the curve of his face.

Shrine bells ring in the distance. Then, a breeze, carrying with it glowing petals.

Oikawa closes his eyes.

“Your wish has been granted.”

* * *

Ushijima awakens with tears streaming down his face. On his chest is an unfamiliar weight.

He lifts the book and stares at it for a long time.

* * *

It is dawn when he sets out.

The city of Warsaw is still slumbering as he walks through its streets, snow crunching under his boots. The morning air is crisp, even more so as he approaches the open spaces of the banks of the Vistula river. 

He walks for a long time, observing the still grey waters reflecting the dull skies above them, the naked trees, dark in their masses. He watches as one by one, the orange glows of faraway mountain villas disappear as the sun slowly emerges.

He finds a lone bench somewhere along the path. Brushing off the snow, he settles down, pulling out a canister of warm chicken broth he’d brought along. 

He blows on it, watching the steam dissolve.

He sits like that, staring listlessly at the white sheet spread out before him. 

Then, he pulls out a small book from his coat and turns to a marked, yellowed page.

ゆふぐれは

雲のはたてに

ものぞ思ふ

天つ空なる

人をこふとて

When evening falls,

my reveries turn

to the farthest clouds,

for I love one who dwells

in the vast skies above.

**Author's Note:**

> -title is a line by poet Fujiwara no Toshiyuki from the anthology Ogura Hyakunin Isshu  
> -a kiseru is a traditional Japanese smoking pipe  
> -a jinbei is a traditional set of Japanese clothing  
> -a hachimaki is a Japanese headband, usually made of red or white cloth, typically featuring a design of kanji at the front. they are worn as a symbol of effort or courage by the wearer, especially by those in the military, or to simply keep sweat off of one's face  
> -the miya twins are kitsune, foxes depicted in traditional Japanese folklore that are said to have shapeshifting abilities among other mythical powers  
> -more on jomon figurines [here](https://heritageofjapan.wordpress.com/just-what-was-so-amazing-about-jomon-japan/ways-of-the-jomon-world-2/jomon-crafts-and-what-they-were-for/the-mystery-of-the-clay-dolls/)  
> -in some southeast asian cultures, flower baths are said to cleanse bad energy and bring fortune  
> -a kotatsu is a low, wooden table frame covered by a heavy blanket, upon which a table top sits with a heat source underneath  
> -the poems recited by oikawa and ushijima at the end are from [here](http://bungeikan.jp/international/detail/10/)


End file.
